Have A Little Faith In Me
by APerfectGrace
Summary: Dean is animatedly explaining Boltzmann's Constant to his best friend when Castiel is suddenly struck with the realisation that he is in love with him.


_Ingredient #1: Geek Dean. AKA Specs n' Frecks. Fluffy sweater with slightly too-long sleeves, TARDIS shoulder bag, red Chucks and hipster glasses._

_Ingredient #2: Biker Castiel. AKA Casbolt. Open leather jacket, silver buckled belt, feather wrist tattoo and aviators._

_Along with ingredients, add half a cup of teenage hormones, a pinch of fandom references and a drop of profanity into a large bowl._

_Stir well, pour into a saucepan and leave to simmer for nineteen years._

_You are most welcome._

* * *

><p>Dean is animatedly explaining Boltzmann's Constant to his best friend when Castiel is suddenly struck with the realisation that he is in love with him.<p>

Not the friendship, brother-from-another-mother kinda love.

Not the I-love-you-cause-I-have-to kinda love.

Not the I-put-up-with-you-cause-you-have-a-car kinda love.

Castiel is in_ love_ with Dean.

Love.

Luuurve.

_Love_, love.

Castiel realises that he loves Dean in that sickening puppy love, honeymoon, love of my life, I-need-you-always-cause-I-can't-live-without-you-and-I-want-to-caress-your-skin-and-kiss-you-breathless way.

_Notebook_ style.

And it hits him like a sixteen-ton carrier truck, full of exhilaration and fear and lust and panic and excitement all rolled into one. The realisation is like a clap of thunder, cracking through every fibre of his being and weaving into every conscious thought, pulling every fabric of time into this single, life-altering moment.

It's an ordinary day.

Dean is meeting him in the diner down the block from his university.

It's the one with the cracked, red leather stools and peeling wallpaper and timeworn, aqua jukebox in the corner. It's the place with a perfect view of the massive park opposite, the one where they hold the annual summer fair every August. They go every year, regardless of the fact that they both pretend it's too _lame _to go to, even though they're secretly counting down the days until they can shoot plastic targets and go on that weird spinning ride until they're sick. Dean always buys _way_ too much cotton candy and ends up looking like a silkworm's ass, whilst Castiel is left carrying all the gaudy crap his friend buys on a whim that he'll inevitably regret later on, all the while casting a wistful eye on the rollercoaster in the distance.

Sometimes, when it's a sunny day, they get their food to go from the diner and stroll over to the green so they can sit and eat and talk and watch the clouds float by.

Memories of lazy days and honeysuckle and buzzing bees suddenly surface at the forefront of Castiel's mind and his mouth is moving into a nostalgic smile before he can even think about it, forcefully pulling him back into the present just in time to see his friend materialise in front of his eyes.

"Casbolt," Dean smiles, by way of greeting.

It's a stupid nickname he coined for him a while ago, something that hardly makes any sense. It's based off one of the many fandoms that Dean is involved in, almost as dorky as the guy himself, but inexplicably it always manages to make Castiel's heart stutter violently every time he says it.

Dean is, as always, wearing a multitude of colour today.

He says that this is because a little colour goes a long way in an already dull world (the word _little_ being used extremely loosely when it comes to Dean Winchester), but Castiel secretly suspects that it's because his friend is probably colour-blind and hasn't got the first clue about clashing colours.

He is wearing a pair of platinum-grey skinny jeans that do nothing to hide his dorky bowlegs, the Captain America belt Castiel bought him for his birthday last year, the beat-up, red Chucks he virtually lives in, a huge, soft-looking, electric blue sweater with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows (which makes sense because that sweater is practically swallowing Dean whole), a TARDIS shoulder bag slung over his left shoulder because he is the biggest geek this side of Kansas, a bunch of bracelets from every colour on the spectrum on his right wrist, and those dark, hipster glasses that he's forever pushing up his freckled nose (hence the name Specs n' Frecks).

As Castiel drinks in Dean's outfit, he can't help but laugh at their predicament.

For he is dressed in a red t-shirt (his signature leather jacket is hanging haphazardly over the edge of his chair), indigo-coloured jeans, a black belt with a silver buckle, grey Chucks a shade darker than Dean's jeans, Ray-Ban aviators which are hanging off of the collar of his shirt, several leather bracelets on his left wrist that partially cover the inky lines of his feather tattoo and a silver ring on the third finger of his right hand.

They match.

Red, blue and grey.

It isn't even on purpose.

It's a genuine coincidence, and it isn't the first time it's happened either. Being best friends means that they are very much in tune with each other, so it's not that surprising that they sometimes coordinate their clothing, purely by accident. It's still amusing though, but now instead of just mirth, something else is rushing through Castiel's body at the sight, circling in his stomach and sitting just above his solar plexus with a glowing heat.

For some reason, every nerve in his body is on red alert, and he has _no idea why_.

"Specs n' Frecks," he replies as usual, ignoring the strange thumping of his heart.

He's been calling Dean that ever since he was eight years old, ever since that time he waited for him outside the opticians when he came out all disorientated and blinking rapidly behind his first ever pair of glasses, all huge and blocky and coloured in bright stripes of red and blue.

Castiel had taken one look at him and had nearly laughed his ass off, while Dean had coloured like a beetroot and retorted that they were _cool_ because they were red and blue like _Spiderman_ and now that he could see properly he was gonna kick his _ass _if he didn't stop laughing at him _right now_.

Using his nickname for Dean sends a weird pulse through his already heightened nerves, and he can feel his heartbeat accelerating without understanding why Dean's entrance has sent his heart into overdrive.

He coughs and shifts in his seat, changing the situation by sliding over a previously unseen, clear glass of green, glutinous liquid just as Dean plonks himself down on the seat to his left. It's one of those disgusting health drinks; it's thick and tastes horrific and has a load of herbs in it that make Castiel want to _heave_ but for some reason that he cannot fathom, Dean actually enjoys the taste of it. Apparently it's cleansing for the system and all kinds of good for you, but personally Castiel would rather gouge his eyes out then willingly drink that crap.

His friend thanks him happily.

He responds with a low huff of laughter that holds a smidge of nervousness, even though there is no reason that any anxiety should even be _in_ there.

He can order Dean's choices without hesitation, because he knows him like the back of his hand.

Probably because his friend is ridiculously stubborn when it comes to food and always gets the same damn thing: house salad with ranch dressing, chicken bites, that godforsaken drink of death (shudder) and a slice of whatever pie they have that day. No variation whatsoever.

Pie is Dean's vice.

Everyone has an addiction.

For Castiel it's cheeseburgers (especially the ones they make downtown at Mama Missouri's – _god,_ those burgers could drive a man to _kill_), for Gabriel it's any type of hard candy, and for Dean it's anything with a light, flaky crust and rich, fruity filling.

It's the one thing he isn't fussy about. Pecan, apple, key lime, blueberry, rhubarb, cherry, strawberry, lemon… if it's followed by the word 'pie' Dean wants it.

Thinking about pie instantly makes Castiel think about Dean's reaction to pie.

He always gets a weird, unfocused look in his eye and suddenly his grin is three sizes too wide and he always ends up with half of it on his face, which Castiel is starting to believe is the cutest thing in the world. Who ends up with food all over themselves and _still_ looks adorable?

The thought draws a wistful smile to his face, and Dean notices it before he can catch himself.

"Whatcha smilin' about?" he nudges him, winking behind his glasses.

"Oh," Castiel blurts, not expecting the sudden contact and shocked to find himself blushing at the touch. "Nothing."

He and Dean have touched countless times. It's the unspoken regulation of friendship.

They've shared beds, gone swimming together, borrowed each other's clothes, wrestled one another… hell, they've walked in on each other in the shower more times than he can even remember. There was also one _very _unfortunate incident four years ago where Dean had accidentally walked him on him doing… uh, yeah. _That_.

That hadn't been so fun, for either of them.

Dean had whirled around so fast he hit the wall nose first and cracked his glasses in half, whilst Castiel had fallen off the bed so quickly that he managed to procure a rather lovely strip of carpet burn from elbow to wrist. Needless to say, it took some time for them to look each other in the eye afterwards (very literally in Dean's case), and Castiel still checks the door is locked even now.

Well, one can never be too careful.

Point is, they're in close contact with each other on a daily basis; what the hell is so different about their proximity now?

Why is he reacting this way?

Unfortunately, Dean misconstrues Castiel's brush-off as him hiding something and shifts closer to him to heckle him.

Instantly, Castiel gets a hint of that weird lemongrass and sea salt shower gel that Dean always uses, that ridiculous smell that he can never seem to get away from, no matter how hard he tries.

Usually, the smell of Dean filters in and out of his conscious if he's faced with it, but for some reason, it's been sticking in his mind a lot more lately, though he would never tell _Dean_ that. In fact, he's finding that that smell has begun to have an instant calming effect on him in times of stress. For some reason, it makes him feel safe and at ease.

That's probably why he's taken to keeping a bottle of it in his room. To relax. Yeah. Totally. Nothing weird about that.

But now, as Dean closes the distance between them from two feet to about six inches, that smell washes over him, and he suddenly wants to lean _into_ it instead of _away_ from it. He wants to drink it in until he's practically drowning in it, surrounded by lemongrass and sea salt and _Dean_.

"You got that look on your face," Dean is saying, and he zones back in.

"What?" he responds stupidly.

"That look you get when you think about Andrew Garfield," Dean clarifies, and Castiel is horrified to think that _that_ is the expression he's wearing when he was thinking about Dean.

Don't get him wrong.

Andrew Garfield is hot as _fuck_.

Any idiot and his mother could see that.

But the fact that he's got his Andrew Garfield look on means that he's got his sexual face on (which makes sense because, you know, _Andrew Garfield_), which means he's got his sexual face on while thinking about Dean and his stupid lemongrass scent.

Ergo, sexual face and Dean.

Ergo, sexual _attraction_ and Dean.

Holy hell, is he sexually attracted to his best friend?

What the fuck?

"So, how was uni?" he says, rapidly changing the subject with a hint of desperation, hoping that Dean will drop it because there is no way he can explain that he was thinking about _him _without opening up a can of worms he is seriously confused and panicked about right now.

At the mention of university, Dean's face visibly brightens, and before Castiel can breathe he is off like a _shot_, breaking down the events of his day and the progress of his dissertation and how this formula works better than the other formula and so on and so on…

Dean is a second-year Physics student at Lawrence University, and he _loves_ it.

Learning comes naturally to him.

He thirsts for knowledge the same way a desert man thirsts for water. He takes things in that most people nearly blow their brains out trying to understand. Seeing his excitement at learning makes Castiel wish he could see things in the same light, but unfortunately he just doesn't possess the same brain capacity that his friend does. Thankfully he always has Dean on hand to attempt to explain to him the things that he learns about.

Attempt being the operative word.

Castiel can never understand a word he says; it's all Greek to him.

But Dean… Dean is _gifted_.

He is so unbelievably intelligent that he makes degree-level mechanical engineering look like kindergarten building blocks.

He aced every single high-school test put in front of him and entered Lawrence University a year earlier than everyone else. The dude is _smart_.

He's so smart he's studying Russian on the side-lines, for fucks sake, and not because it's a minor. He's doing it for _fun_.

Castiel swears that if he hadn't known Dean his entire life he would probably _hate_ him.

Because, _come on_, Dean is _perfect_.

He looks like Michelangelo carved him from marble, his brains rival Einstein's, he has the _worst_ fashion sense and_ still_ manages to look like he's fallen off of a model catwalk, he's funny and loyal and has the most_ annoying_ obsessions with TV shows and baked goods. He's nerdy and sexy all rolled into one and the fact that he doesn't seem to think so or see it just makes him that much more attractive, and he's gonna make some guy delirious with happiness one day and _oh_, doesn't that thought just _spike _through Castiel like a poisonous dart, hitting him right in the chest and making it hard to breathe because, because,_ because_…

Because the thought of Dean being with_ anyone_ makes Castiel want to decimate an entire country.

Because the thought of Dean holding someone's hand, kissing someone's lips, telling them that he loves them, being intimate with them, makes Castiel want to _murder_ someone.

Because the thought of Dean being with anyone _but Castiel_ makes him want to wreak hell on Earth.

It's like a punch to the gut.

It's_ horrible _and it _hurts _and it's like every part of his soul is shattering into a million, heartbroken shards of glass that cut to the quick, because he is struck with the realisation that one day someone _else _will take the role of being the most important person in Dean's life, and that draws Castiel into such a black spiral of pain that he is dangerously close to bursting into tears at the mere _thought _of it, because _he_ is Dean's best friend, _he_ is the most important person in Dean's life, and _he_ should get to hold his hand and kiss his lips and tell him that he lo–

Oh. _Oh._

Holy crap.

Sweet Jesus _Christ_.

"Casbolt? Cas? Are you even listening? Hello?" Dean waves a slender hand in front of Castiel's face, his face twinging in concern. "You have a really weird look on your face, man. Are you okay? What are you even thinking about?"

"I'm thinking that I'm in love with you," Castiel replies simply, unable to even look at him.

Every single muscle in Dean's body freezes, and the colour completely drains from his face.

He's too stunned to speak; his mouth continuously opens and closes like a fish. Did… did Castiel just… "_What?_"

"You heard." Castiel finally swivels his head to look at him. "I'm in love with you, Dean. Ever since I can remember. I just never realised it until now."

A deafening silence surrounds them, making them oblivious to everything around them but each other, and for a long, long time they can only stare at one another, the weight of Castiel's confession hanging heavily in the atmosphere.

"I'm in love with you too, Cas," Dean whispers finally, without even moving an inch.

Castiel nods.

Armed with this new information, he does the only thing that he is capable of doing right now.

He stands up and, without a backward glance, he bolts.


End file.
